


No Return and No Deposit

by karaokegal



Category: RPF - Pundits
Genre: Friendship, M/M, Pre-Slash, Snark
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-20
Updated: 2009-12-20
Packaged: 2017-10-04 17:05:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,664
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/32470
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/karaokegal/pseuds/karaokegal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fox News pundit fic. Jonathan has some advice for Shep. Will Shep be brave enough to take it?</p>
            </blockquote>





	No Return and No Deposit

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Kaye (Themistoklis)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Themistoklis/gifts).



Shep stood in the control room, sipping a Diet Coke, letting himself wind down from the concentrated energy it took to do the show for an hour every night.

It had been a good one, too, celebrating the twentieth anniversary of the Berlin Wall coming down. Nothing ambiguous or controversial there. Good times. Good memories. Ronald Maximus and the Iron Lady. _Mr. Gorbachev, tear down this wall!_ Even the obligatory criticism of the administration had come naturally. Obama should have been there. End of story.

Aside from the remotes and taped pieces, he had Jonathan in the studio to talk about the European perspective. Hunt had been his usual manic self, as he shared memories of the celebrations that broke out in London, as well as mentioning how sad it was that Churchill hadn't been alive to see it. Shep had to smile at Jonathan's Churchill fetish - he'd work Winston in a Carrie Prejean story if he could - but it was totally sincere, and certainly made for good television.

He left the sound guys to the hard work of keeping Beck's volume at something less than completely deafening, and walked out into the huge room lined with laptops and monitors that served as Fox's media hub. One bank was devoted to the so-called "Big Three," the increasingly irrelevant dinosaurs, their broadcasts being monitored by six interns, tasked with sifting through the daily cesspool for egregious examples of pro-Obama propaganda to pass on to Hannity or O'Reilly for public dissection.

On the other side of the room were the feeds from Fox-friendly correspondents in the field, both home and abroad. C-Span could be found on the back wall in all its mind-numbing glory, next to Al Jazeera and BBC, but Shep's focus was on one lone monitor, nearly hidden behind an unplugged fax machine and easily ignored by those who wanted to, his personal bete noir: CNN.

Not the whole network, of course. Most of the "reporters' were nothing more than MSM washouts on their last legs. They were losing out to MSNBC in the ratings, for crying out loud, which wasn't surprising considering that three minutes of Wolf Blitzer made C-Span look like Girls Gone Wild by comparison.

There was one thing on CNN that could get his attention and there he was, with the 360 logo in the bottom of the screen, eyes making love to the camera, a hint of skin visible at the neck of this forest green polo shirt, those lips…oh god, those lips…

"Not bloody fair, is it?"

Shep turned around. Jonathan was standing there, holding a cup of coffee, as if he needed any more energy. While Shep had to pump himself up to go in front of the cameras, Jonathan actually seemed more intense in person and had to work at dialing it down so he wouldn't try to jump through the camera and right into the viewers' laps.

And here he was, practically bouncing on the balls of his feet, and clearly taking in the full measure of Shep's fascination with one of their chief competitors, one who was sworn nemesis to everything Fox News stood for. Shep tried to make a joke.

"Yeah. His family has all that money. What doesn't he give the job to one of those unemployed people they claim to be so concerned about?"

Jonathan didn't pick up the thread. Instead he continued down a more dangerous road.

"He gets to prance all over Manhattan like a prima ballerina, practically admits to being queer on-air during that tea-bagging debacle, and it's all just hunky-dory. Everybody knows; nobody says anything."

Jonathan's voice was rising in both in volume and pitch, like when he was reporting on the dangers the soldiers were facing in Afghanistan while Obama dithered about committing more troops.

Shep looked around the room, suddenly concerned over which colleague might be privy to this conversation, but they appeared to be alone with Shepard's obsession. The interns were focused on Katie Couric and Beck was hyperventilating on the big screen, his breathy voice pouring out of every speaker in the building.

For all their good-natured joshing, Jonathan had never attempted to cross the particular boundary. Maybe he was working as a spy for Murdoch.

Shep knew he'd dodged a bullet with that damn movie. It was good thing he'd been as careful as he had, ever since he was a kid back in Holly Springs, so there was no proof of anything, but even the accusation had earned him a trip to the old man's office for a little talk.

_Full faith in you, of course. Vicious gossip. Slander. Liberal media looking for a way to bring us all down. Half a mind to sue the bastards. No faggots working at my network, right?_

Right. Message received loud and clear. If there was even a hint of a whisper, his career was over.

"Typical double standard," Jonathan continued, dropping his voice, but not the topic. "You know what would happen if you got caught with Lady Gaga on your Ipod? One way ticket to Worst Persons."

"Yeah," Shep agreed. "And I wouldn't even get a bonus out of it."

Normally anyone who made Olbermann's nightly whine-fest could expect a "well done" and a gift from the old man. Gretchen's most recent win had netted her a pair of diamond earrings. Shep was fairly sure, his appearance would earn a dismissal, which would then garner even more gloating coverage from Olbermann and Maddow et al, accompanied by sanctimonious bullshit about how it had nothing to do with the sex, mind you, they just needed to point out the hypocrisy of the right.

Jonathan had his glasses off, and was staring into Shep's eyes with great wellsprings of sympathy, or was it empathy? Could he even risk finding out?

Maybe it just Jonathan's quirky humor. Shep decided to test the waters, or at least lighten the mood a little. He angled his head back to get the last drops of his Diet Coke and came back in full sleazy insinuation mode.

"If I wanted to, I could name some names around here, let me tell you."

Jonathan put his glasses back on and treated Shep to a smirking, sidelong glance.

"Well who couldn't? I'm sure O'Reilly's got more than just quim on his falafel list and I'll bet a week's salary that Cavuto's been taking it up the jacksie on a regular basis for years. Don't even get me started on Doocy."

With that, Jonathan made a particularly obscene gesture that had Shep choking with laughter. He couldn't let the limey bastard win this one.

Shep tilted his head to an extreme angle and opened his eyes wide. With a deep breath, he brought his clenched fist up to his mouth, letting his lower lip wobble for the full effect. He could already see the broad grin breaking out on Jonathan's face.

"I want American to know the truth," he gasped in a hoarse whisper, before tilting his head in the other direction and forcing his eyes to open even more. "I, GLENN BECK, MASTER OF DISASTER, THE KING OF MY OWN TERRORDOME, AM A BIG, RAGING HOMO, AND I AM SCARED!!!!"

The real deal was drowning them out with his own tirade, so that the interns would have no idea why Jonathan had spilled some of his coffee or why Shep was nearly bent over with laughter.

"So, who do you think munches more carpet, Malkin or Ingraham?"

Shep had to blink at that one.

"Where the hell do you get the brass balls?"

"I'm British, dear. It's like wearing camouflage. Never mind the wife and three kids. Everyone just assumes that anyone with an English accent got buggered daily in public school and the ones who liked it joined the Labour party. Even if you've voted Tory all your life, you're still under suspicion so no one bothers to ask."

"That's…"

"No bloody fair," Jonathan replied, returning to his opening argument.

"But…?" Shep wasn't sure what he was asking or what he wanted the answer to be. Maybe just to know that there might be a middle ground between Anderson Cooper and himself.

"I was back in London a few weeks ago and I saw a marvelous production of La Cage Au Folles in the West End."

"Are you telling me you're really a drag queen? Is there something frilly under your suit?"

"Yes, darling, and the thong is practically killing me." They exchanged smirks and an eye roll. "All I'm saying is, I am what I am. You might want to consider it."

Yeah. Right. Hell, he'd been called a "metrosexual pantywaist" on so many conservative blogs, he was afraid to be spotted in a five block radius of the theater district, much less hum a ditty from West Side Story, no matter how pretty felt.

Beck had gone to commercial, leaving an uncomfortable silence. He looked at Jonathan wondering where they were and where they went from there.

One piece of down-home wisdom from his grandfather came to mind.

"You dance with the one that brung ya."

Jonathan nodded and Shep wasn't sure if he heard a sigh or not.

"Cooper would kill for your ratings."

"Yeah."

In the end that was what mattered, right?

"Shall we, as you Yanks like to say, blow this popsicle stand?"

Shep shook his head in disbelief.

"How long have you been here? Popsicle stand? I'm going to call INS on your illegal alien ass."

"Better that than Lou Dobbs."

Jonathan's intonation of the word "Lou" was enough to get Shep snickering again.

"Alright, you win. Let's get out of here."

"Excellent. This is still the anniversary of the Wall, you know."

It was, after all. A perfect reason to go out for drinks. What could be more natural than two friends celebrating the victory of individual rights over the forces of repression? He could already imagine the perfect toast.

_To freedom!_


End file.
